


He Just Wanted You To Stay And Try To Change His Mind

by Jus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy ending though, M/M, Mommy Holmes doesn't really appears, i don't really know when this is supposed to happen anyway, i suppose so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jus/pseuds/Jus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John asked him to leave, Sherlock did as he was told.<br/>He didn't think he would be left alone that long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Just Wanted You To Stay And Try To Change His Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ascandalinsheets.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ascandalinsheets.tumblr.com).



> I did this for a tumblr's valentine's day thingy. I'm glad the lovely ascandalinsheets asked for this, because the challenge was worth it. I didn't think I was able to write something like this but it apparently went quite well. So here you go, guys ! Oh and English isn't my first language. I'd really appreciate if you could point out any mistake !

“That’s it Sherlock! I can’t bloody see you anymore! Get the hell outta my sight!”

John’s face is as composed as always, but he shouted at him so Sherlock knows he doesn’t even need to argue. The doctor’s eyes are throwing daggers at him, and he steps back. This is not only anger John is expressing here, it’s disdain, nearly  _disgust_. He’s never seen disgust on John’s face yet.  
With a twirl of his coat, he exits the flat, slamming the door shut quite noisily. He quickly reaches the outside air, and leave Baker Street without a word.

 

* * *

It has been four days.  
Sherlock stays in his couch, left alone with nothing to do. That night, when he left the building without even trying to apologise, he didn’t think John would leave. But he did.  
The next morning, Sherlock came back to a flat empty of any John’s presence. The tea mugs, gone. The aftershave, gone. Everything that made the flat a little bit human, gone.  
(He doesn’t mind the disappearance of the horrid jumpers, though.)  
Sherlock feels so dead on the inside. He misses the clattering in the kitchen, he misses the quiet noise of letters being typed on the laptop, and he misses the sound of paper pages being turned on the dim light of the lamp, during the evening. He has never realized how much he cared about John, nor did how much he has grown attached to the man –his man. Mycroft warned him once, he remembers, that caring wasn’t an advantage. He didn’t even know he cared until now.  
Mycroft is right, and Sherlock hates him for it –and for a lot of other things too, but these don’t matter because John isn’t here to listen to him bitch about his older brother.  
So Sherlock doesn’t move, still on the couch, still wearing his pajamas.

 

* * *

It’s been a week when Mrs Hudson tries to knock some sense into him. That doesn’t work well.

“My boy, you are really the most stubborn idiot I have ever seen! You both care so much about each other!”  
“Well, Mrs Hudson, why don’t you say this to Doctor Watson? Because he is the one who left.”

And even if the old lady is being supportive and kind (he knows, deep, deep inside that he’s the brat here) he shuts the door close and lock it, before slumping back on the couch.  
He changed his clothes, today. The loneliness is still horrible, and he suspects that John took his cigarettes when he disappeared, because he hasn’t had the chance to find a single pack. Yet.

 

* * *

It’s been a bit more than a fortnight when Greg comes to ‘visit’. Sherlock feels like he’s a patient in some bed in some hospital –or the morgue, he doesn’t really know. He still feels so dead and cold on the inside- and the pitying look on the policeman’s face doesn’t make anything to lighten his mood.

“Sherlock, you stink! Did you take a bath for the last two weeks?”  
“Oh, I see you’ve been speaking with John. And, no. But that’s a good idea.”

He lets the D.I in, and leaves him alone in the kitchen when taking a quick shower. He then dresses in normal consulting detective clothing, and returns to Lestrade. He doesn’t offer tea, because the words belong to John. Instead, he goes for being a dickhead (because that’s what he is, isn’t it?), but his friend cuts him short.

“I need you.”  
“I know,” answers Sherlock. He tries not to be too surprised, he guessed it already, but he didn’t think Scotland Yard would still want his advice when in this state. “What is it this time? Homicide? A double one?”  
“You’ll see,” smiles the policeman, and he seems sad, for just a second. “Come on now, Sherlock. The quicker we finish this case, the better.”

And off they go, Greg not saying anything about John or what they discussed –because Sherlock knows they’ve talked. He certainly won’t be the one to bring the subject up.

 

* * *

The case lasts a few days –Sherlock doesn’t know exactly how many. He didn’t sleep in days, maybe a week. As soon as he reaches 221B, he feels his forces leaving him. He just notices the neat way the knocker is positioned on the front door, but doesn’t give it any of his attention. He prefers to go up the stairs quickly and slumps on the couch rather inelegantly.   
When he wakes up hours after, he is welcomed back to reality by Mycroft. A rather annoyed grunt passes the younger’s lips.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”  
“Mother liked him lots, Sherlock. She is very disappointed in you.”  
“Well, I didn’t leave, this evening!”  
“Sure you did, dear brother. You left this apartment at 10:34 pm very precisely.”  
“Stop this, Mycroft. And I mean both the spying and the harassment. I’m not apologizing for anything.”  
“Well good luck regaining his heart, then. Goodbye, brother mine.”

It’s the first time Mycroft leaves without Sherlock forcing him to, so the brunet is left all alone, again. He mutters ‘what do you know about heart matters, anyway?’ but he doesn’t know if he’s speaking to his brother or to himself.

 

* * *

After the MI5's visit, Sherlock regains part of his senses. Meaning, he stops feeling like a bag of trash and starts taking cases again. But he continues speaking to the air next to him, certain that John is by his side. Most of his clients look at him funny, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind because he’s busy searching for criminals, assembling puzzles, observing and deducing.  
Time passes by. Until one night, he asks for his mobile. Sherlock waits and waits. After fifteen minutes, he finally yells ‘John, my mobile,  _please!_ ’ but only Mrs. Hudson answers back, ‘He’s gone, Sherlock! You are the stupidest boy in all London, darling!’  
(She hasn’t stopped calling names all day long since John’s departure, and that is a very annoying habit Sherlock would love to see disappear.)  
He gets up and reaches for his blackberry. Lestrade doesn’t have anything interesting for him. What a pity.

 

* * *

Several days after this, he receives a text from Molly.

**How are you doing? I feel like I haven’t seen you two in ages! –MH**

**What? Do you mean you don’t know John left 221B Baker Street? –SH**

**What? When? Sherlock, what did you do? –MH**

**How is it everyone assumes I did something wrong?!? He asked me to go, so I went! –SH**

**Oh. Oh, Sherlock, he just wanted you to stay and try to change his mind. –MH**

He doesn’t answer back. A seed of doubt has been planted in his mind, and Sherlock really, really doesn’t need this. All he wants is to escape this need he has to see, and feel, and smell, and hell, kiss, kiss every inch of John’s body. He did well until Molly texted. He did so well!!

The next days are horrible, because John’s absence is reminded to him by every single detail of the flat, of the life he observes from the window.  
The nights aren’t better. He wakes up (when he succeeds in falling asleep, that is) sweaty, with fantasies still dancing before his eyes.

 

* * *

The phone rings unpleasantly near his bed. Just when he’s fallen asleep, wonderful. He’s curious though, it’s late and it may be Lestrade. A case would be perfect right now, so he rolls over. Unknown number.

“Who’s this?” he practically yawns into the speakers.  
“Hum, it’s Anderson.”  
“…”  
“I just saw John. Lestrade told me for you two, and, hum. He wasn’t very well. I think so; I mean he was completely drunk. And, he, he was with a woman? They left together, at least. I thought you should know.”

Sherlock can’t believe his ears. Anderson, calling him in the middle of the night –literally, it’s 1 am!- in order to warn him about his love interest cheating on him? That’s madness. He mutters ‘thanks’ and hang up. What is he going to do?  
He realizes he’s already running in the streets of London too late. This is too much. He needs John, he really does. He didn’t think John was so very important to him, he supposed he was still the sociopath he had claimed to be so long ago, or what seemed to be so long ago. John changed him, in so many ways. He just said thank you to Anderson; he cares and loves again. Truly. He doesn’t care what Mycroft will say, for the moment he just tries to think. Where could John go? He doesn’t know of his previous address and he didn’t think of use to learn his past girlfriend’s addresses neither. With an angry flick of the wrist, he pulls out his phone and composes his brother’s number.

“Sherlock, how is it you’re calling me in the middle of the night?”  
“Track down John. Now.”  
“That’s not…”  
“Shut up and do it, Mycroft.”

Strangely but also thankfully, the government complies.

 

* * *

John doesn’t really understand what’s going on. He’s been staying with his sister the whole time –not that he had a choice. And nearly two months after he walked off Baker Street, Sherlock arrives like a madman in poor Harry’s flat, and grabs him by the shoulders and blurts out a flow of excuses. He’s still drunk from his evening with his sister and is really clueless about what his (ex? He doesn’t know anymore) boyfriend wants from him. Actually, he falls asleep just after Harry punches Sherlock squarely in the jaw.  
When he awakes the next morning, he finds an aspirin and a glass of water on his nightstand. He takes the medicine before realising that only his bedroom in Baker Street has a nightstand near his bed. He blinks twice, and takes in his environment. It’s his bedroom –well, the one he slept in before they decided Sherlock’s bedroom was the best. The headache isn’t terrible, so he remembers quite clearly what happened yesterday evening. Harry has decided she had had enough of him complaining about his lost love and that an evening at the pub was inescapable at this point. Then they got home and… and Sherlock arrived.  
He rushes to the living room as fast as he can, and for sure, Sherlock is here, in his navy dressing gown, with a black eye and a bruise on the left side of his jaw. Harry is there too, grumpy as always, and both are having a cup of coffee, looking like actual adults –once in a while does not harm.

“Ah, John. I’m glad you’re up, you are going to explain to your _lovely_  sister that…”  
“You shut up, you moron.”

Harry has her explanation as for if John would be okay to live with Sherlock once again (her little brother have been a real whining pain in the ass the few last weeks, and she didn’t want him to be hurt again). She guesses it’s okay, if John all but hugs the hell out of the tall detective, reaching for a kiss.

 


End file.
